An Eluding Image
by backarapper
Summary: Sherlock isn't a fan of storms. John doesn't quite know what to do about it. ((Continued in A Minimal Touch))


**So this is really quite short and I was thinking about maybe doing another chapter or two. If I get enough asks for maybe a continuation (that will be a little more than a platonic relationship, I'm sure) then I'll see about it. Until then, this is it.**

**I hope you enjoy! Please review :)**

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**_Happiness is an eluding image. _**

**_And Sherlock found that the more he tried to focus on it, the more it seemed to just wriggle out of his grip and run as far as it could. _**

**1**

Thunder rolled across the sky in heavy, dark bursts, a deep growl stretching across the horizon. The world seemed to shake under the ferocity of the storm, water pouring from the skies to batter the earth mercilessly. The sky was grey as far as the eye could see, save for the occasional blitzkrieg flash and everything felt as though it were falling apart.

Sherlock stood at the window, glaring viciously out the paned glass into the storm. He hated rain and thunder and lightning. You can predict the coming of a storm, but you can never predict the storm itself and that, Sherlock found, was terrifying in its own right. Not that Sherlock would ever admit to being afraid of anything.

He shifted his weight, transferring it from his left foot to his right as he stood in the dark room, illuminated by the sun behind the storm and nothing else. A somber burgundy clung to his torso in a perfect fit, slacks as dark as the sky. His violin was clutched tightly in a spidery, pale hand, but lowered to his side as he watched the storm come crashing down onto the surface of London. As much as he wanted to play, he couldn't quite feel the music.

There was a flash.

Sherlock counted: One… two… three… four… five, and then a harsh and vivid rumble emanated from the dull steel sky. A bitter frown tugged down on Sherlock's lips, mixed with disgust. One mile.

The door to the flat opened in a flourish and a familiar groan resounded through the flat as a rain-soaked John Watson stepped through the doorway, his shoes squeaking once or twice on the floor. "It's _pouring_," John half laughed as he shook out his arms and head before peeling off his rain-slicked coat and kicking off his boots. "And it's cold!"

"You're stating the obvious, John," Sherlock sighed as he decided to put his violin down in favor of crossing his arms behind his back. "You know how I so loathe repetition in any form."

John shot the man a glare, but Sherlock didn't turn around, he just stared vacantly out the window. Vacantly. That was new. Another flash burst brightly and John jumped once for the light, and again three seconds later for the thunder. Sherlock mentally noted the gap of time between them, tolling his shoulder as he listened. John watched the movement and knew he was calculating something. "That must have hit pretty close. That was rather bright, don't y—"

"One kilometer, John. Or, if you will, point nine-six-five-six-zero-six kilometers." His foot began to tap impatiently, the hands behind his back tightening.

Sherlock seemed almost disturbed, and John couldn't think of words to describe it and, even worse, couldn't find an action to assist him. It nearly scared him how Sherlock seemed to radiate this discomfort so strongly with the smallest movements. It just _wasn't_ _Sherlock_.

Despite this, John stood there, getting antsy as he watched Sherlock and his obvious displeasure. "How do you know?" he asked, signaling he thought nothing was off with his tone. Or, at least, pretending. He figured that giving Sherlock an opening to have his ego stroked was a good place to start.

A sharp shiver passed through John, forcing his teeth to chatter some as a draft blew from under the door, and he wondered if maybe he left the door to the flat open. Peeking his head out the door, John looked down the stairs and double checked to make sure that he wasn't wrong. The door was shut. It was just cold. Then again, the wet clothes didn't exactly help him. He fixed his gaze on Sherlock's back again, focusing on the point where creamy skin turns to burgundy silk.

Sherlock sighed and rocked back on his heels like a waiting child, earning a soft smile from John that the man didn't see. He was too busy watching the storm. "The distance between the lightning and the thunder was approximately three seconds just then. That equates to point six miles away, which when converted to kilometers is point nine-six-five-six-zero-six. Or, when you round off, one kilometer." He paused. "You're being so obtuse, John."

John frowned at Sherlock's rapid speak and the insult that accompanied it, noting how the tone of his voice was wavering. There was a tense moment of silence between them as John watched the contracting motions of Sherlock's musculature every time the thunder boomed or the lightning crashed. "Sherlock…" he started softly, only barely above the sound of rain peppering the building like small pebbles. "Are you al—"

"Yes, John," he said in a bored tone. "I'm absolutely fine. Just _fine._" Even though his back was turned, John could hear the way Sherlock hissed through his teeth as he jammed his hands into his pockets as if he thought it would hide the way they clenched.

Cautiously, John stepped towards Sherlock, quietly to not distract his concentration on the rain but loud enough so that the man knew he was coming. He landed his steps behind Sherlock, staring out the window from behind his shoulder. After a moment, John shifted awkwardly in his cold clothes, lips puckered to the side as he tried to think of what to say. "Why does the rain bother you so much?"

"It doesn't bother me!" he snapped, whipping his head to the side to give John an intense glare before his gaze shifted back out into the gray world. John was close and he could see the way Sherlock's posture fidgeted, could tell that he was, if he didn't know any better, frightened.

"Sherlock," he stated in a voice that dictated that it was pointless for Sherlock hide it. John knew.

**2**

His weight shifted from one foot to another, as if he were debating telling John about the storms. About everything. In an anxious movement when thunder flashed again, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and cracked his neck, making a cognitive sound in his throat as he did. "They don't make _sense_, John."

"How do you mean?" John eyed the curve of Sherlock's shoulder, well defined in that shirt.

"They just don't make any sense. They can't be predicted! Lightning just… strikes. Thunder too, and I can't time the distance between the next. I can estimate a radius for the landing point, for example, one kilometer. But I can't predict where exactly it will hit next and that…" Sherlock made a sound of fierce frustration as he brought his hands up and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He threw his head back in his frustration and John watched, tensed and concerned and mesmerized by the severity of Sherlock's discomfort. The man was beautiful, even in suffering.

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's only—"

"No! It's not alright!" he shouted, his hands flailing as he tried to explain. Hanging his head, Sherlock's back shook with a sob that never came, and John tried so hard to understand this puzzling man. It was something to see Sherlock falling apart like this over a _storm_ of all things. John admitted to himself he felt lucky enough to have seen it first hand, but the fact that it was storms was… stunning. Sherlock was afraid of something that seemed so unreasonable for a man his age. However, for _this_ man, it made perfect sense.

After a moment of nothing but the deep throb of thunder and the arcing of lightning across the sky, John reached his hand forward. He wanted so badly to rub the knots of tension away, to comfort Sherlock _somehow_ because he just wasn't articulate. But he had nothing.

**3**

Sherlock could feel what was happening and began to count the seconds left in the distance, happiness turning in his stomach. After a moment, John pulled his hand back to himself without a word, deciding against trying to comfort the man. He just didn't know how to do things when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Something clenched at Sherlock's heart that he couldn't quite recognize. No, he knew this one. Disappointment. No thunder came; John had pulled away.

"I'm just going to go change," John murmured quietly before turning on his heel and walking out to the stairwell, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock's back with a singular sigh.

Sherlock nodded briskly at his words, still facing like stone out the window as he counted the seconds, every iota of joy just about gone.

He knew that John was still kilometers away.


End file.
